


done for good, good as dead.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Mentioned Character Death, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Pining, Sharing a Bed, There Is Only One Bed, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25750450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: "I want this forever, he thought, the pain of it a killing thing. But that is not to be."The Warrior of Darkness and the Exarch stay the night in Tomra prior to "Breath of Respite."now with an alternate ending over in"refulgence."
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Reader, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 29
Kudos: 195





	done for good, good as dead.

The bag of earthseed felt light in his arms as the Exarch followed the Warrior of Darkness and Korutt back through the winding path to the small town of Tomra. Despite the blinding light overhead, the Exarch could tell it was nearing late evening—and he was painfully aware of the extent to which he’d stretched his already finite reserves in every joint, jolting him up to his spine as he took each heavy, pained step… his eyes wanted to close and never open, to curl up in a warm spot beneath a tree and rest, for a long, long time.

But how could he attempt to stop, when she was right there? Blazing brighter than even the skies above, a beacon of purest hope in the depths of despair he’d been in for a century. It drove him to push himself further and further, reaching ever towards the man he _once was_ , not the man now, and so he followed her and Korutt, listening in contented silence as she wove a humorous and well-told tale about one of her old guildmasters from long ago.

Relief spread through him like a balm as the aetheryte of Tomra gleamed from the hilltop, and he resisted the urge to fall to the earth as he dropped the bag of earthseed with a thump before Chief Xamott, wondering how in hellfire he would gather the strength to take it all the way to Amity. The Tower called to him, a distant, scorned lover, exacting their vengeance in the only primal way they knew know, by draining his scant reserves to fractions of what they once were.

Apparently, Xamott could see the despair plainly on his concealed face.

“Oh, but you must stay the night!” Chief Xamott pleaded, holding his diminutive hands up in front of them as if it would be enough to stop them from walking straight past him. “Amity and its residents will be asleep shortly, and besides,” and the Exarch could swear that beyond the helm there would surely be a faint twinkle, “we’ve prepared quite a feast for you! It is a great honor to have not only the esteemed Crystal Exarch, but also the Warrior of Darkness among us tonight, and we all want nothing more than to celebrate the coming of night!”

The Warrior started, unused to being told to slow down, especially with Vauthry and his sineaters so close. “Chief Xamott, While I appreciate this incredibly generous offer, we really should be—”

“Warrior,” the Exarch said, struggling to gather his wits, “I daresay Chief Xamott speaks true. Such matters can wait til the morn, and I would have you well rested on the eve of so fierce a battle.”

While it was true he wanted rest more than nothing, feeling every three hundred years of his age more keenly than ever, he was sure the Warrior could fight clear til the morning, little worse for the wear, and Amity would awake and get back to work if she so much as crooked her smallest finger.

But…

He selfishly, bitterly, _desperately_ wanted more time with her. And while he hadn’t thought himself capable before ascending the Ladder, perhaps being away from the Crystarium and in her presence had affected him. He was at the end of an incredibly long journey, and for _once_ , he had an opportunity to seize something more substantial than a catnap at his desk for himself. And the Twelve knew they both needed the rest, and the Talos likely wouldn’t be operational ’til the following afternoon.

That was how he justified his actions to himself. The guilt was another animal entirely.

She stared at him, blinking in surprise, then nodded slowly.“Well, you’ll never see me turn down a meal and rest.”

Korutt cheered from behind Chief Xamott, kicking his feet up in excitement. “Then you _must_ tell me all about your adventures! The Exarch promised you would!”

“He did, didn’t he,” the Warrior flashed him a dry smile.

He shrugged haplessly, a fool to the end for her. “I can think of worse fates,” he smiled, relieved beyond words. He had her for another day. It was far more than he ever _dreamed_ of asking for, an evening with her, away from responsibility, pressure, or fear, and yet…

“Come, come!” Korutt said gleefully, running at top speed into a Dwarven home. The Warrior, laughing to herself a the Dwarf’s rush, followed him quickly, leaving the Exarch to gawk on the dais.

“Erm,” she stammered, halting just before the short doorway. “Can I…?”

“Just mind your head and take off them boots, you’ll be fine! And _do_ try to be careful, some of these things survived the Flood itself, and I’d not see some tall-legs wreak havoc on my great-great-grandmother’s finest china!”

The Warrior nodded obediently, kneeling down to unlace her boots. The Exarch thought ruefully of how his back would punish him in the morning for such abuse, but he followed suit.

“This home is beautiful,” she smiled winningly. “Thank you, Korutt, for your generosity.”

The words were not mere flattery, for she spoke true; the home was absurdly charming, a perfectly cozy home rendered miniature for the tiny Dwarves. He had heard tales of such homes from Krile, who noted the specific niceties with not a little longing her voice, but was never been so lucky to see one in person. Everything, from broomsticks to stepladders to water goblets, was scaled down to be perfect for a Dwarf or Lalafell. He lingered in the hallway, the historian in him wanting to observe the architectural motifs and catalogue the similarities, but she and Korutt were turning down a darkened tunnel, and he was loathe to leave her presence.

“You haven’t even seen the best part! Come, come!”

And so he trailed behind, through a connecting door, striving to refrain from knocking his skull on the low ceilings. The tunnels the Dwarves had dug into the cliffside were more complex than he had imagined, giving way to a larger (in comparison) room with a hundred tiny holes in the ceiling allowing in pinpricks of Light he inferred were for ventilation. Several dwarves were tending a roaring bonfire in the center, all manner of food laid out and in various states of preparation. It was so deeply underground that it was several degrees cooler than the outside, and gave the illusion of being tucked away under nightfall, the ventilation holes serving as the illusion of stars.

“You needn’t have gone to such lengths to feed us,” the Exarch stammered, his eyes roaming over the piles of prepared foods, mentally tallying up the cost. While the Crystarium had been constructed for self-sufficiency, the outlying villages of Novrandt could hardly afford such luxury, and decades of watching villages die from starvation left him discomfited in the face of such indulgence. “I know well the cost of such food in these difficult times. Please allow the Crystarium to repay you for your generosity.”

“Nonsense!” One of the dwarves called from a simmering stewpot, “we’ll all be eatin’, and we haven’t had cause to celebrate in… Wicked White, several years at least! Let us have our fun!”

“Not since Xamott won chief-hood,” another piped. “We roasted a whole Huldu!”

“Well,” he sighed with resignation, looking over to the Warrior. “We should make the most of this, and tell them as many tales as they ask to repay our meals, yes?”

She smiled and nodded her assent, moving to kneel on the clean-swept floors, tucking her knees up and resting her arms on them. He followed suit, setting his staff carefully on the floor, hoping she didn’t notice the way his knees creaked like rusty hinges and the air left his lungs. Eventually having to stand back up would be unnerving. Despite his exhaustion and the lovely food prepared, grilled huldu and roasted iguana on beds of mint spinach sauté, he found it difficult to work up an appetite, forcing food down his throat one methodical bite at a time as the Warrior turned to him, speaking in gentle, sweet tones.

“Where do you think they put it, you reckon?” She said, gesturing to their companions. The dwarves had each downed several servings each of the meal, while the “long-legs” were struggling to finish their first.

“’Tis common knowledge that Dwarves possess stomachs in each of their legs,” The Exarch said matter-of-factly. “It was an evolutionary trait adapted after living in barren lands with little resources.”

Her eyes rounded into glimmering saucers. “ _Really?_ Do Lalafell have the same?!”

Her expression was so innocent and priceless; he clapped a hand over his mouth, struggling to smother the laughter, then tilted his head back and laughed hard.

“I-I was merely joking, but… your face is a gift more precious than the night itself,” he grinned at her. She huffed her indignance.

“Y’shtola was right,” she muttered into her meal, “half-truths and secrecy.”

He smiled, but the thought of Y’shtola’s angered words flung at him over the years lingered still. Her anger was the hardest to weather out of all the Scions, because he _knew_ she was right, and despite Urianger’s assurances, there was no denying it. Deceiving any one of the Archons was a feat unto itself, but Y’shtola saw through each of his deceptions for the smoke and mirrors they were. He shook his head to put the matter out of his mind, accepting a petite cup of the Dwarves’ rich espresso con panna from a young Dwarf.

Through the evening, Korutt pulled tale after tale from the Warrior of Darkness, and the Exarch was pleased to realize that more oft than not he recalled every story with perfect recall, following along in his head with the Count’s journal entries. As she explained the ballad of the Black Wolf and his eventual demise, her voice grew more languid and fluid, a seductive melody that played with the firelight to lure him into the dark bliss of sleep, small fragments of laughter and words slipping into that state of subconsciousness as he rested.

He woke to his cheek pressed against hard armor and looked up to see the Warrior watching him with a soft smile on her lips. He nearly startled away at how close she was; her eyes fair glimmered as the firelight bounced off them, a gentle hand at his back.

“The old man is tired,” she told Korutt wryly. “I apologize to end our evening so abruptly, but would you mind showing us to our quarters?”

Korutt leapt up excitedly from his perch knocking over a tankard of dwarven wine in his rush. “Follow me!”

The Exarch leaned his weight on his Allagan staff, endeavoring to not let on how _difficult_ it was to stand again. The Dwarves, most well in their cups or dowsing on the dirtpacked floor, nodded and waved their “good night”s. They followed Korutt through yet another myriad of tunnels, the Exarch struggling against exhaustion to prevent from cracking his head open the low-hanging rafters. Finally, Korutt turned a corner and revealed a small yet comfortable room, lit warmly by a handful of old aether lamps, the two Dwarven beds previously occupying the space and a modest mattress laid in the middle of the floor along with piles of neatly folded blankets and pillows. There were no windows in this room, as it was deeply inset into the cliffside tunnels.

“Thank you, Korutt.” The Warrior smiled kindly, and they both waited for him to guide them to another room.

“Of course! Sleep well, you two!”

And to their great horror, Korutt walked away briskly without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

He stared at the bed. Then the Warrior, who returned his gawking with open-mouthed horror. Then to the small retreating back of Korutt.

“The little… _Korutt!”_ He called, sticking her head out the small door. Korutt’s short rapid strides echoed through the tunnel as he came hammering back.

“Aye?!”

“S-Shouldn’t there be… two, separate rooms? Or two separate beds, at the very least?”

“Ah, but this is the only long-legged mattress we have. There used to be more, but we haven’t had guests in well over a decade. You’ll just have to make do. Sorry!”

And before he could attempt to strangle the dwarf, Korutt hurried away into the dark tunnels again.

“T-T-This should be fine,” the Exarch stammered, speaking to himself more than her. “We are both… professionals, and you can have the mattress. I will take the floor. One blanket ought to be sufficient. Besides, I need little sleep nowadays—”

She huffed. “That is quite ridiculous, your condition is much more fragile than mine and we both know it. You will take the bed.”

“Ah, but _I_ will not be the one slaughtering a Lightwarden tomorrow. _You_ need your rest for such things.”

She threw up your hands. “I have slept in much worse conditions this _moon_ alone! Exarch—”

“I will not have my champion in a worsened state simply—”

“And _I_ will not have you passing out because…” she trailed off with an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We… can _share_ the bed. Althyk knows I’ve had to share bunks with nearly all the Scions at one point or another. So long as you don’t hog the blankets like Alphinaud, everything should be fine.”

His mouth opened to retort again, but then he finally nodded. She _was_ right; he was half-dead on his feet already, and a night on the cold hardpacked floor would likely do him in, and then where would he be when she needed him most tomorrow? “I shall endeavor not to, my friend,” he said stiffly.

He automatically busied himself with making the bed, careful to give her extra pillows and spreading the short blankets evenly over the small mattress. His hands shook as he moved; he may have dozed perfectly at peace on her pauldron ten minutes ago, but he was on edge from pure adrenaline. He did _not_ sneak glances over as the Warrior pulled off her armor, more and more skin becoming exposed by the second as she moved, her lean bare legs torturous enough to haunt his dreams for eternity onward.

She stood before him expectantly in a skin-tight camise and pantalettes and he struggled not to gawk hopelessly, never more grateful for the damned cowl than now.

“I-I must insist on complete darkness while we sleep, my friend,” the Exarch said apologetically, gesturing to his shadowed features.

Her mouth tightened into a thin line, but she sighed and crawled into the bed. He extinguished the two aether lamps, groping in the pitch black as he shirked his robe to only the tight black smallclothes beneath. He carefully unwound his arm band and set it aside, heart hammering in his chest as he realized he had nothing left to do but get in bed… _with her._

The mattress was _so_ small.

It wasn’t going to get any bigger.

She was perfectly still as he crawled into the bed, trying not to disturb her, but it was a lost cause with the mattress being barely large enough for small two people. He brushed her bare leg with his and jumped as if shocked, before situating himself carefully so they weren’t touching. With a start, he realized that while not only his ears were exposed, but his damned tail. He carefully draped it over his side of the mattress, struggling to calm himself.

The accompanying silence was deafening, only broken by their anxious, ragged breathing in the dark.

 _I’m in the same bed as the Warrior of Light._ There was something profane about that statement and the very act of being so intimately close to one so highly esteemed in his life. And they were both wearing very, _very_ little at all. If he only stretched his hand out, he would feel boundless expanses of bare, scorching skin, more than he’d felt in _centuries_. He clenched his fists under the blankets, struggling to keep his tail from smacking against the floor in his frustration.

“I can’t—“

“Are you—“

She giggled at their outbursts.

“I can’t sleep,” she admitted breathlessly, rolling over to face him. He turned to face her, realizing that if only she could see in the dark, the truth of his identity would be laid bare to her. She need only reach up and feel his ears, or feel a brush of his tail, and surely his world would come crumbling down. He feared her doing so, and yet _wanted_ it just as badly.

“’Tis an unnerving predicament we’ve found ourselves in,” the Exarch agreed, chuckling nervously. “When is the last time you’ve had to share a bed with someone—? Gods, don’t answer that,” he groaned, realizing the enormity of what he’d said.

She chuckled. “’Tis nothing so untoward, Exarch. Alisaie and I often bunk together during our travels. While she’s not as much of a blanket-hog as her brother, she _does_ kick something fierce. And you?”

“I… Well.” He stopped, thinking. The question brought up memories of a child’s shrill screams splitting the quiet air of the Crystal Tower, and his frantic attempts to soothe them. “You see, I’ve raised Captain Lyna since she was a little girl. Her… family was slaughtered by sin eaters, and there was no one able to adopt her. So I took her as my ward. When she was very young, too young to remember now, I would stay in her room to help her through night terrors. So, that is the last time I shared a bed with anyone.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “I had no idea… you seemed close, but…”

“Lyna wishes to be independent,” he murmured. “She wanted to seek out her own without the whispers of being the Exarch’s ward behind her back, and thus the formalities. It has served her well. Her strength… it is a thing to admire, having survived such difficult circumstances.

“She is by far stronger than me, to survive in Novrandt for so long,” she murmured, “To say this world is unkind is an understatement.”

“All that will be over tomorrow, my friend.” And it was purest impulse that drove him to blindly reach beneath the blankets and take her hand; she startled at his touch, then curled her fingers into his. He traced the pad of a finger over her ragged calluses, wondering how many battles, how much training, drove her hands to be so rough. He wondered how those hands would feel running down his skin, and shuddered at the thought.

“That feels nice,” she admitted. “No one really… touches me anymore, so it’s nice that you’d do so. I don’t know if people think they’ll expire on the spot, or I’ll break into a million pieces… but at least you aren’t afraid of me.”

“It was wholly impulse,” he stammered, embarrassed. “and I apologize. But I am gladdened you feel so.”

She leaned forward, resting her forehead on his, her breath ghosting across his face smelling of the bitter wine they’d drank earlier. His grip on her hand tightens, drawing it under his chin protectively, a vain attempt to keep her close. “I know nothing about you,” she whispered, “but I trust you. When no one else has thought of it, you… you’ve made sure I’ve eaten, rested, slept. And I don’t know if it’s because you need me to be strong, to slay these Lightwardens… but I don’t think it’s wholly so. Am I right?”

His heart had never yearned so for him to give it all away. To assure her of his love, to promise her the world, to try for forever… Maybe there was another way, something he hadn’t considered, and dying in the rift wasn’t his ultimate fate after all.

… But he thinks of the blighted Light worming through her soul, and how he will take all it on tomorrow and die in the rift between worlds. Even if there _was_ another choice, they were out of time. _She_ was out of time, by his own hands.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he murmured, drawing her hand up to his lips to ghost his promises across her battered knuckles, “know that I have always cared for you, beyond merely your abilities or your status. And that I do not relish such secrets any more than you do.”

She hums her pleasure. “Korutt was right.”

“Mm?”

“We make an excellent team.”

“I-I’m honored,” he stammered, “that you would think so.”

He hadn’t known what to expect, when he ascended the Ladder this disorienting bright morning, blinking beneath his hood at the sight of the ocean drawing farther and farther away from him, the Talos’ cranking tirelessly below to propel them higher and higher. He had hoped he might speak to her in private, offer her his support in an unambiguous way if only for himself, but having the opportunity to fight by her side again… Korutt hadn’t an inkling how much his words had heartened him to hear, a reassurance that the past one hundred years on this cursed Shard had been worth it, and that at least this hadn't changed since he’d last known her in the Syrcus Trench. And now to be here, in the quiet dark, her hand nestled in his, her easy, slow breathing the only melody in all this world…

 _I want this forever_ , he thought, the pain of it a killing thing. _But that is not to be._

He tried to review what he would tell her, when the Light inevitably took a strangehold on her and he’d step in to usurp it. He and Urianger had agreed that the Exarch should become the villain; once he died, his identity would with him and there would be no one to pick up the pieces. While it wasn’t the most poetic, it was the most effective solution, and would prevent the Scions from saving his life and dooming both Shards. And then he could go to his death knowing he’d saved their worlds, that these centuries of work, these _generations_ of effort, would not be for naught.

So much rests, he thought, on those small shoulders and kind eyes, and he listens to her breathe in the safe darkness.

“Would you forgive me,” she whispered, “if I took an indulgence for myself?”

 _You can have everything._ “What would you like?”

She reached her free hand out from beneath the covers; slowly, gently, with cautious fingers, she traced the contours of his face; he sighed at her touch as she ghosted over his cheekbones, below the sockets of his left eye (he wondered if she could feel the markings beneath his eyes) and drifting down to streak across the crystal creeping up his face. “It’s warm,” she said with surprise.

“The Tower, and by extension myself, are quite alive.”

Her hand curved under his jaw, humming as she pressed the pad of her thumb against the fullness of his lips. His eyes fluttered close; her index finger ran a scorching line down the angle of his nose.

“I won’t lie, I’m trying to figure out who you are,” she laughed, “by touch alone. I don’t think it’s working.”

He could feel her move to the side of his head, and he caught her hand then, securing it along with her other beneath his chin.

“Now now,” he murmured. “I promised the secrets would be done soon, not tonight.”

He could feel her scowl in the darkness. “If I can’t touch you, can I ask you things?”

“I cannot promise I will answer truthfully.”

“Do you feel guilty? For the things we’ve done, for what we’ll do?”

 _Every bell._ “I do, but I try… to not dwell on such things. I’ve done what must be done, what was asked of me. I have to have faith in the course I’ve set for myself, as do we all. In Novrandt, you cannot doubt yourself, not when so much besets you on all sides.”

She nodded. “That… that makes sense. Thank you, for your honesty.”

“And you?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “gods, _yes_. I try _not_ to, but I am constantly terrified what if I’m doing is wrong, what if I’m just being manipulated by Emet-Selch, what if I can’t trust my own god _Hydaelyn_ , what if I’m failing my friends, the ones that have died in my name, if only I’d been a little earlier, Tesleen, Yotsuyu, Haurchefant might still be alive…” voice breaking, she slipped a hand from his to wipe at her face, and his heart wrenched painfully in his ribcage for her. Without thinking of implications or consequences, he reached over and wrapped his arms around her, snuggling her under his chin, wanting to grant her the facsimile of safety for only a moment.

And she sighed. As if she’d been waiting for this. Like she wanted this all along. Her body, at once soft and muscled, was a _perfect_ fit, her soft legs coming easily to twine in his, her arms wrapping around his waist to hold him close. He pressed a protective kiss into her forehead, wondering if she could feel the ragged drum of his heart beneath the crystal.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You don’t have to do this.”

He frowned, pulling away. “I-If you are uncomfortable, by all means—“

“No!” She said quickly, head tilting up to face him. “No. I cannot… I have not been held so, in many moons, and… gods, I don’t _know_ you, but I _care_ for you. And as much as that terrifies me…” she sighed, her forehead resting against his. “Perhaps I will not linger on such things.”

“No one has to know anything,” he assured her, then cringed at his half-thought words. “That… that sounds like I’m implying much and more, but… these moments can stay here, for tonight.”

“You must be tired,” she hummed. “I know how being away from the Tower can affect you.” She stroked slow circles into his back and he wished she could brand him like the Baldeisons did.

“I wish it were not so, but yes, you are correct.”

“Can I do one last thing? Before we sleep?”

“Hm?” He asked, drowsed and lulled into a kind of besotted delirium by her presence.

And she canted her head up, and, erring a little before finding her mark, to kiss him as gentle as a morphos.

 _You don’t deserve this_ was his first and strongest thought, but it did little to dissuade him.

In that instant, as his mind spun and burned against the universe itself, all he could feel was her warm, alive, too-light-infused body in his arms and her gentle lips on his. _Commit this to memory,_ he told himself. He’d take this and her Light into the rift with him for eternity.

It was the single greatest gift anyone had ever given him. And then it was over, the Warrior shyly ducking her head beneath his chin.

“I’m sor—“

“Don’t apologize,” he said too quickly, “please, don’t…” he stroked her hair, his breathing ragged and gasping, anxiety getting the better of him. “You have given me far more than I deserve, I should be the one apologizing.”

 _“_ I didn’t even… think about if you had anyone else, or if you even felt such a way I just _assumed_ …”

“I cannot… explain everything,” he said, haltingly, “but you are the only one here right now. Does that make sense?”

She nodded, then shuddered with a dark laugh. “Now I can’t sleep for _other reasons_ , Exarch.”

Her tone was implicit and he couldn’t stop the groan that ripped from his throat.

“Sleep, damn you.” He pressed her head into his chest. “I still have dream powder in my robes,” he promised, not knowing if he truly possessed the strength to fish it out. _Don’t,_ he pleaded with her in his mind, _because if I give you this body I will give you everything without hesitation. Every secret, every truth, everything._

But exhaustion won over any plans the Warrior might have had for him; after a time, her breathing slowed, then her grip on him slackened and he knew she was sleeping, dreamless and deep.

He sighed his relief into her soft hair.

Despite his own exhaustion, he stayed awake for some time after, memorizing the way she breathed, felt, smelled with the same dedication as he put to historical Sharlayan examinations. He never wanted to forget her gentle misplaced kiss, the impossibly gentle tone of her voice, and the way her cool nails had felt tracing the dark contours of his face.

Slept took him then, pulling him beneath the dark waves. The Exarch often dreamed; he was never sure if it was merely his too-active mind or the lull of the Tower, but the dreams were always a combination of things he had no memory of and memories which haunted him for eternity onward. Tonight, as if the Twelve themselves had taken a mercy on these two misplaced and misguided people on a too-small mattress in a too-small home, he did not dream.

He woke with a start as she began to stir in his arms, unused to sleeping with anyone besides his own thoughts. Her limbs were twitching with dreams, lashes fluttering against his bare chest. With no timepiece at his side and the cold darkness surrounding them, he had no idea how long they’d slept.

Her lips moved against his skin and sent shudders down his spine.

_“G’raha…”_

He froze, feeling cold and still as crystal.

She murmured, hummed, nuzzled into him. And stilled again.

Sleep couldn’t have been further from his mind after that. He stroked her soft tangled hair in an attempt to soothe himself.

There were several reasons why she might have called out _his_ name, a name so long dead it felt like blasphemy when she spoke it to him in the Exedra. And none of those reasons did anything to quell the tightness in his throat or the white-hot tears at the edges of his eyes.

Either she dreamed of him, of G’raha Tia the historian, with some regularity.

Or she suspected his identity, and dreamed of him still.

He breathed, steady and slow, trying to keep tears at bay as she slumbered in his arms. Was _that_ why she had kissed him? Because she suspected and didn’t care? He gritted his teeth. It was his last morning alive and he was dwelling on that kiss like it was his first, but with _how long_ ago his last kiss even had been, it may as well have been.

If it wasn’t his first, it would sure as hellfire be his last. And that was something he could go to his death content with.

He knew not how long he lay there in her ams, watching the Warrior of Light. After a while, he heard a quiet knock at the dwarven door. The Warrior was too deeply asleep in his arms for him to try to extract her, so he merely called out. “Come in.”

“Good morning! ’Tis almost noon.” Korutt ambled in, carrying a small tray of coffee biscuits and espresso con panna. The dwarf turned on an aetherlamp, and with a start, the Exarch realized Korutt would doubtless see his identity. And the Warrior, if she woke up soon.

“Thank you,” he said meekly, struggling to not panic. Korutt took no notice of him, merely nodding and slipping out the door.

Slowly, despite every nerve in his body fighting against him in both exhaustion and heartache, he slipped out of her warm arms and donned his robes again, only feeling at ease once the cowl fell into place over his eyes once more.

As he poured them each a strong cup of the Dwarven coffee, the Warrior began to wake, automatically reaching for the ghost of himself in the sheets, frowning when she felt nothing, then sitting up.

“Good morning,” he smiled. “Did you rest well?”

She nodded, stretching, craning her neck this way and that. “I overslept, I think.”

“No such thing; you slept exactly as much as you needed.”

“Alright, alright,” she huffed, standing and digging through her pack. “But I need to meet with Chai-Nuzz as soon as I can.” The vulnerable woman of last night was long gone; back was the Warrior of Darkness, here to wreak havoc and save the realm. He felt like a doddering fool beside her.

“You go on ahead—I’ll catch up with the earthseed. I need a little more time for these bones to get moving.”

She nodded, taking a sandwich from the breakfast tray and taking huge bites of it as she threw on her armor, lacing and buckling it across her body with well-practiced ease.

_Will you miss me when I’m gone? Did you love me as I loved you?_

He bit his tongue down on the sentiments so hard he drew blood.

And then she was gone, and he struggled harder than ever to fight his heart into equilibrium.

Korutt and Chief Xamott merely asked him if he slept well, noting how the Warrior of Darkness had left straight away for Amity. He shouldered the bag of earthseed with a huff, the combined attack of mental, physical, and emotional fatigue wearing him thin as he stumbled down the hard-packed road. When he arrived in the derelict town, his vision swam before his eyes as he dropped the burlap sack to the ground.

“Oh, are you alright, my dear?” Dulia-Chai asked, leaning down to peer at him.

“I… am an old man,” he gritted, “even if I do not relish admitting so.”

“You could use some water, I think. Why don’t you come inside the tavern til the Warrior returns?”

“Actually…” the rush of the ocean beyond the cliffs echoed in his ears, reminding him of how he would sit on the rooftops of Sharlayan classrooms with his dear friend Krile and complain about ancient Allagan aetheric formulas as they ate cinnamon cookies. “I think a breath of respite might do me well.”

**Author's Note:**

> [my carrd.](https://thepapernautilus.carrd.co/)   
> 


End file.
